


Esse Quam Videri

by heechullie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Also not dumb Harry, Angry Harry, Anxiety, Bc canon Snape sucks, But Harry being suspicous about it, But also soft boi Harry, Depression, Eventually Protective Snape, Gaslighting, Harry trusting people he really shouldn't, Harry trying his best, I took extreme advantage of headcanon, I'm so sorry for this lol, Liberal use of personal headcanons, Light suicidal thoughts, Malnutrition, Manipulative Dumbledore, Mentor Fic, Mentor Severus Snape, More verbal abuse than physical, Multi, No Slash, Not Dumbledore Friendly, Not necessarily Severitus, Not really Snape friendly for the first bit either, Obviously ignoring events that happened in both the books and movies, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Powerful Harry, Rating May Change, Screwing with the timeline a little, Set in Sixth Year, Snape also trying his best, Snarky Harry, Verbal Abuse, protect Harry at all costs, redemption fic, sigh, somewhat slow burn, very light tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-01-31 10:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heechullie/pseuds/heechullie
Summary: Harry is trying his best, honest.But sometimes he can't see the board in class, or can't hold his wand correctly, or write as neatly as his Professors would like.Sometimes his hands shake, or he isn't as tall and strong as he should be, or he falls asleep in class even with a full nights sleep.Sometimes he flinches at loud voices and fast movements, or has nightmares and headaches that won't go away, or wants to stay in bed for days at a time because it'd be much too difficult to get up.Harry's doing fine, honest.Except he isn't, and no one seems to care. Or notice.Until someone does.(Follows Harry into his sixth year, dealing with the aftermath of Sirius' death, his relatives abuse, and the evergrowing threat of Voldemort, featuring a little help from people least expected.)





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! As a forewarning, I'd like to let anyone who reads this fic know, that if you decide to follow it, I will update very sporadically. Also, I'm not exactly following a linear plot and I'm not really sure where this story is going, but I think it will be a fun ride regardless. At the moment, there will be no romantic pairings, but I am willing to take suggestions for pairings (main or not, and they can be slash (yes even with Harry)) and if I get enough requests I'll incorporate it into the story. That goes for any headcanons as well, because this story is for any readers as much as it is for me, so. I like praise almost as much as I like breathing air, so please don't hesitate to comment, especially if you have questions or suggestions too. There will be plot holes and grammar mistakes galore, so please go to town on anything you see and I will try to fix it. Please don't make me cry from criticism tho :)
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy. And feel free to harass me at any time, for anything. I haven't a life.
> 
> (Btw, the title means 'To Be, Rather Than to Seem')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First chapter. Yay!

_Click._

 

_Click._

 

_Click._

 

_Click._

 

The house was so silent that Harry could faintly hear the ticking of the Grandfather clock from downstairs in the parlor. It was driving him insane. He wanted to march down and smash the clock until splinters of wood embedded into the walls and into the floor and into his own skin.

 

Harry didn’t move.

 

His eyes were dry and itchy from staring at the same spot on the crumbling wallpaper since the Dursleys had left two hours earlier.

 

His limbs ached from sitting still for so long, but he made no move to ease his discomfort. This was the first moment of peace he had had since the night in the Ministry and as relieved as Harry was for the solace, he was almost as equally desperate for someone he could talk to. An eerie stillness had settled around him that made his stomach twist up in knots and his skin clammy. He felt like air was stuck in his chest, making it too tight and hard to breathe.

 

Harry knew he would be not be talking to anyone he really wanted to until school began again, and perhaps even longer still after that.

 

Ron, Hermione, and the rest of his friends would still be recovering from Voldemort’s attack at the Ministry. Dumbledore was probably too busy cleaning up Harry’s mess of a rescue attempt, and Sirius…

 

Well, Sirius was dead. _And it was your fault,_ whispered a small voice in the back of his head.

 

Harry didn’t bother trying to argue with himself. He knew it was his fault that Sirius was gone. One of the last semblances of a family he had had disappeared in an instant because he was too stupid and too impulsive to stop himself from going to the Ministry that night.

 

He had fallen right into Voldemort’s trap. Harry had been played like the foolish boy he was and he could do _nothing_ about it other than wallow in misery and try to accept that Sirius was well and truly _dead_.

 

_Sirius Black, dead. Everyone knows what you did. Everyone knows you killed him._

 

Harry stood suddenly, ignoring the protests from his joints, and swept everything from the top of his bedside table into the floor in one frustrated motion.

 

“Merlin, I know that!” He yelled at the voice in his head, his words melting into the silence like butter. “I know that, why do you keep reminding me?”

 

The last of his sentence was said in a trembling voice as Harry desperately tried to stop himself from crying. He could feel the tell-tale prickling at the corners of his eyes and he forced himself to blink rapidly in an attempt to keep his oncoming tears at bay. The back of his throat felt like it was trying to crawl up and out of his mouth.

 

_Pathetic. Sirius would be disappointed, seeing you like this._

 

Harry couldn’t hold it anymore. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

 

“I know,” he croaked one more time before curling into himself on the ground.

 

Downstairs, the clock ticked on.

 

* * *

 

 

The Dursleys returned later that night, long after Harry had picked himself off of the floor and cleaned up the mess he had made from his earlier outburst.

 

He scrambled from his bed and went to stand in the center of his room as he heard the locks on his bedroom door unlatch. The door swung open with a loud creak and there in the doorway stood Aunt Petunia, her hair still perfectly curled from that morning and held in place by what must have been an entire can of hairspray. Petunia’s clothes, too, showed no signs of displacement; her blouse and skirt were cleanly pressed and her Mary Janes looked as clean and polished as the day they had been bought.

 

The only sign that anything was amiss was the heavy crinkle of fatigue surrounding her eyes and the light smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth.

 

Harry knew that Petunia would never have left the house unless her appearance was perfect, because she believed that somehow, it would make up for her spiteful personality. She was so obsessive about her appearance that she would have left for the powder room the moment she noticed that her makeup was smudged, so the fact that Petunia hadn’t redone her lipstick and especially that she hadn’t even seemed to notice it yet were quite telling.

 

“Vernon’s business deal fell through,” Petunia told him, as if Harry cared.

 

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia,” Harry responded anyway. He had learned long ago that the best way to avoid conflict with the Dursleys was absolute compliance, or whatever it was that he could do closest to it. A month or two ago he may have said something scathing, just to make Petunia irritable and defensive.

 

It wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

 

Harry’s words were of a sympathetic nature, but his voice was dry. Judging by the way Petunia wrinkled her nose, she could tell precisely how insincere he was being. She let it go, however, and continued as if she’d never stopped talking.

 

“I’d say it wasn’t your fault, _boy_ ,” Harry recoiled from the harshness in her voice, “-but I’d expect you’re not above doing anything you can to sabotage Vernon and I, are you? And after all we’ve done for you…”

 

It was natural, at this point, for Petunia to blame everything that went wrong in their lives on Harry. He hadn’t done shit to mess with the business deal; he hadn’t even known about it until this morning when Vernon had told him as he shoved him into his bedroom and bolted the door. Even if he had wanted to do something, he wouldn't have been able to, trapped in his own room as he was.

 

This, of course, did not matter to the Durselys. In their pea-sized brains, magic was omnipresent and could do next to anything, and so that translated into Harry being able to do next to anything.

 

Following this line of logic, they still haven’t quite deduced why Harry hadn’t escaped from the hellhole that was their household with his so-called ‘all-powerful’ magic, and perhaps asking them to do so would require too much of their shared two brain cells.

 

Petunia’s statement had trailed off but she made it clear she was expecting a certain response. Harry knew that there would be consequences if he said anything other than what she wanted to hear.

 

So he answered how Petunia wanted him to.

 

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia. I’ll try to be more grateful. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

 

Harry’s voice was still void of any emotion, but Petunia’s eyes lit up in twisted triumph regardless. The lines of stress on her face smoothed out and she looked decidedly calmer and more collected than when she had first entered his room. She looked so satisfied she was almost smiling, which was a disturbing thought.

 

He felt a surge of bitterness in his chest, knowing that his pain brought Petunia such joy.

 

“There’s a good _freak_ ,” Petunia said vindictively, her lips curling into a mocking smirk when she saw Harry flinch away from the use of that word. “I’m pleased to see you’re capable of following your…” Petunia paused there, tapping her finger against her lip and making a dramatic show of looking for the proper word, “...training.”

 

She was talking down to him like that on purpose, to embarrass him, and Harry knew that, but it did nothing to stop the flush he felt creep up his neck and onto his cheeks.

 

Petunia raised her hand as if to hit him, and Harry flinched away from her once more, and _Merlin,_ he was tired of reacting to the Dursleys like a scared pup. Instead of striking him like he was expecting, she gently patted his cheek as if to feel the heat of his shame herself.

 

Sparing him one last look, his aunt retracted her hand and left the room as if nothing had happened, closing the door behind her. Harry could hear the click of the bolts locking back into place, but it was a distant sound in the roar of his violent thoughts. His face burned from where she had touched him, and the heat spread all along his body and deep into his limbs, making the room seem small and unbearable. He stumbled back to his bed and crawled on top, his movements sluggish and uncoordianted, and he felt unbelievably more exhausted and disoriented than he had before his talk with Petunia.

 

Harry didn’t know why he reacted so strongly at the Dursleys every move, at their every word. They pushed him around plenty, but the Dursleys couldn’t actually hit him like they wanted to; Dumbledore would rain hell upon them should they ever harm him grievously. They knew that, and Harry knew that, but it didn’t stop him from living in a state of constant paranoia.

 

At the beginning of the summer, when Harry had come back after the disaster at the Ministry, it’s like the Dursleys had sensed that all his liveliness had been drained straight from his body. They took great advantage of the fact that he no longer felt strong enough to fight back.

 

Petunia had taken immediately to doing exactly as she did earlier: moving as if to slap him, fast enough for his stomach to drop and his adrenaline to start pumping, before slowing her hand just before it made contact with his flesh. Sometimes she’d pet him like she was calming a skittish animal, as she did before, and other times she’d sneer and drop her hand, usually following with a scathing insult.

 

Vernon and Dudley preferred much less subtle methods. They were apt to push him around, shoving Harry onto the floor, or into the wall, or into any of the surrounding furniture. It was always hard enough to ache for hours afterward but never hard enough to bruise, and they excused it by blaming Harry for being in the way or making them stumble on purpose.

 

They all threatened and insulted him tirelessly, never stopping for a moment to remind him of how much of an inconvenience he was, how useless. They’d sometimes whisper it through his door during the day, while he was locked in, knowing full well he could do nothing but sit there and listen. They sat in the kitchen in the evenings, eating dinner as loud as they can to make sure he could hear them while they ate, even over the static noise of the telly.

 

Harry hated it, he hated _them_ , but there wasn’t a thing that he could do about it. If Dumbledore didn’t think that starvation and imprisonment were heavy enough crimes to let him leave the Dursleys’ house forever, then Harry didn’t even want to know what the Headmaster would say about what they were doing now.

 

Secretly, Harry didn’t want to do anything about it either. It was humiliating that his relatives could treat him like this, that he _let_ them treat him like this. He was terrified of someone finding out what was really going on. Fortunately, most of the wizarding world didn’t even know the Dursleys names, so his secret was relatively safe. For now. But if it ever got out…

 

Everyone would lose faith in him. If Harry couldn’t even handle a couple of dimwitted Muggles, how was he to handle the most powerful and intelligent dark wizard of the century?

  



	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. This one is a little rough. Thank you to everyone who bookmarked, commented, and left kudos! Please excuse any mistakes. My only beta is Grammarly.

Vernon Dursley had suffered from extraordinarily high blood pressure for as long as Harry could remember. Vernon tried to play it off as only having bad genes, but everyone- including Harry, Vernon's doctor, the Dursleys themselves, and even their next-door neighbors youngest child- knew that it was because of his poor diet and his remarkable talent of being the laziest, fattest lard in perhaps all of England.

 

The last part, of course, was only Harry's humble opinion, but he assumed that most everyone who knew Vernon privately agreed with him.

 

The only time Vernon took a break from being the laziest, fattest lard in perhaps all of England was when he picked up on a new business lead for ways to make some cash, or when he was angry at Harry.

 

Unfortunately for Harry, the latter happened much more than the former, and because Vernon's blood pressure was so shot to hell, Harry never knew when to expect his next outburst.

 

In a manner quite unusual for Vernon, most all of the days leading up to start of the Hogwarts school year had gone by without a single major incident.

 

He still occasionally had his minor fits of rage, but it was nothing Harry wasn't used to. He could handle being roughed up a bit and yelled at, even if when Vernon yelled at him spittle sprayed from his mouth and onto anything and everything near him. Disgusting, but bearable.

 

In the short time he had been back from school, Harry had grown to become more afraid of Petunia and her newfound brand of torture than Vernon's manhandling.

 

This happened to be quite a mistake. Even if his uncle had proved to be unusually calm this summer, not prone to fits of anger like he used to be, Harry should've known better than to expect it would last. He had been lulled into a false sense of security in the absence of Vernon's normal outbursts, which was why on the night before he was supposed to return to Hogwarts, he was wholly unprepared for the fit his uncle was about to have.

 

Harry was cleaning the dishes after dinner. Dudley had gone to stay at a friends house and Vernon was somewhere, lurking around the house. He had been especially tense that evening. Petunia sat close by, watching him like a hawk to make sure that not a single morsel of leftover food made it into his body. 

 

Not that Harry would stoop so low as to eat the Dursleys scraps. He did have  _ some _ pride left, at least. Not that he really needed to anyways. He was always hungry nowadays and by this point, he was just used to it. They fed him just enough to keep him alive but not enough to for him to feel comfortable. Even at Hogwarts, he would nibble lightly at his food.

 

He always got raised eyebrows from his housemates for how little he ate, but it was easy to play it off as being a picky eater.

 

The only one who ever seemed to be suspicious of his excuses was Hermione, but she still hasn't gained the courage to call him out on it. Harry hoped she never did.

 

The sound of heavy footsteps on the linoleum floor from behind him caught his attention. He could tell it was Vernon because he was breathing so heavily that Harry could feel air brush the back of his neck.

 

"I have decided that you're not returning to that blasted school again this year," Vernon announced, and for the first time in months, Harry felt the fiery defiance in his chest wake up and rear its ugly head. 

 

He paused in the middle of washing the dish in his hand. His entire body stilled.

 

"Why?" 

 

The word slipped out unconsciously, but as soon as he said it, Harry found himself determined to get an answer to his question.

 

Vernon stuttered for a moment, clearly not expecting his statement to be questioned. From her position in the dining room, Petunia barked, "Boy! Apologize. I don't know why you thought you could get away with talking to him like that."

 

Harry apologized immediately, and he could feel rather than see the look that Vernon gave Petunia right after. His blood pressure was probably skyrocketing right now because his wife had managed to handle Harry better than he did.

 

Despite his misstep, Vernon decided to answer him anyway. “You’re not going because I refuse to let you continue infecting us with your  _ ways. _ ” He told him, and Harry barely held in a disbelieving scoff.

 

“You mean with magic?” He responded drily.

 

“You  _ will not  _ say that word in this house.” From the sound of his voice, Vernon was clearly seething.

 

Harry shook his head slightly. There would be no getting through to his uncle this way, so he tried a different approach.

 

"Uncle Vernon," Harry said slowly, "you can't stop me from going to Hogwarts."

 

He still had his back to Vernon, but he knew the man was flustering, probably shocked that Harry still had the nerve to talk back.

 

"I can bloody well stop you from doing whatever I like, boy, or have you forgotten?" Vernon was nearly shouting, and it grated heavily on Harry's ears.

 

He suddenly turned around and faced his uncle, letting the dish and wet cloth fall from his hands into the sink.

 

Vernon stood across the kitchen, holding a half-empty wine glass and his face as flushed and angry as Harry had imagined.

 

"Perhaps you didn't understand me. You  _ won't  _ be stopping me from going to Hogwarts." 

 

A heavy silence settled over the room, and Harry knew he had started something he would now have to finish. Somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to care. 

 

Petunia was perched on the edge of her seat and had her beady eyes trained on them like she was watching a movie. Harry had half a mind to offer her some popcorn.

 

Vernon's breathing became even heavier, if that was even possible, and after a couple of seconds, his face twisted as if he had just realized what Harry had said. His hand clenched visibly around the stem of the wine glass.

 

The muscles in Harry's legs tensed in anticipation, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. He really needed to learn how to keep his mouth shut.

 

Vernon took a small sip of wine, and then abruptly slammed his drink onto the side of the countertop, shattering it into a jagged weapon. Broken glass and wine strewed across the floor. In the background, Harry could vaguely hear Petunia gasp and the scrape of her chair moving across the floor as she lept from her seat. He was too focused on watching his uncle to really care.

 

Adrenaline shot through Harry’s veins and he instantly started looking for ways he could escape. Vernon was blocking the only possible exit and the odds of Harry avoiding this situation unscathed were dwindling by the second.

 

“Vernon!  _ What  _ are you doing?” Petunia hissed.

 

Vernon swung the hand holding the broken glass and pointed it towards her. She visibly recoiled and took a small step back despite being nowhere near him.

 

“Hush your mouth, woman. I’m handling the freak, like I should have a long time ago.”

 

Harry’s aunt seemed to be equal parts shocked and terrified because her mouth was hanging open in a very unbecoming manner. Her husband had never spoken to her like this before, or at least not that Harry had ever seen, and she obviously had no idea how to handle it. Petunia was adept at managing things when subtle machinations were involved but when it came to brute force, she was clueless.

 

Because there was no self-preservation to be found in any area of Harry’s body, he decided it was time for him to speak again.

 

“Oh yeah, Uncle Vernon? How do you plan on ‘handling’ me?” 

 

A sharp crack echoed through the kitchen as Vernon whipped his head around to glare at him. Harry could feel his own neck wince in sympathy. 

 

“Oh, just you wait. You’ll get yours…” And before Harry had time to react, Vernon was across the room and stabbing his stomach with the fractured end of the wine glass.

 

He shoved it in deep and twisted it slightly. Harry could feel his skin being shredded, and a scream began to make its way up his throat. After what seemed like forever, Vernon finally removed the makeshift weapon and stepped away. Harry fell to the ground and his knees crunched onto the shards that were already on the floor. He weakly pressed against his wound, blood coating his hands and dripping lightly onto the floor. 

 

Almost immediately after, Petunia started screeching. He could only dimly hear her over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

 

“Have you lost your mind!? If that Headmaster finds out about this, we’ll never see the light of day again-”

 

Vernon interrupted her and looked into Harry’s eyes. “He won't find out about this then, will he, Harry?” 

 

Harry was sure that if he wasn’t busy bleeding on the ground, he would be vomiting at how disgusting it was to hear his name roll from his uncle’s lips. He was just as sickened by the smug tone that Vernon’s voice had taken on.

 

All at once, the fight left Harry’s body and he could feel his shoulders droop. “No,” he gasped, “he won't find out.”

 

And Harry meant it. No one would be finding out about this, he would make sure of it.

 

Vernon’s face contorted into the ugliest smile Harry had ever seen. “Good,” he said, before dropping what remained of the cup onto the floor. Harry watched the last of the blood-coated glass shatter against the flooring. The kitchen light shined on the mess, creating a kaleidoscope of colors, and Harry distantly thought that it looked beautiful.

 

“Now clean this up.”


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, desperately trying to find a synonym for the word cut: uhhhhh.... slice? laceration? incision? wound? fucking..... skin trench?
> 
> Me trying to find a synonyms for the words lock, glass, and Harry's name: see above process
> 
> Anyway, here's chapter three. You'll notice that Harry is a little overdramatic about some stuff, but he's what the kids call an unreliable narrator. I should probably add that into the tags.
> 
> There is some description of injury, but its not very vivid. I wrote this during AP testing, so please excuse any mistakes.
> 
> Also, the description of the wounds and everything (including how they're treated and how they feel) I've all experienced. Not from stabbing or anything, but I play softball and that gets rough. So any description is from firsthand experience, excluding the stab wound.

An hour later found Harry in the bathroom, resting on the edge of the porcelain bathtub, with a pair of tweezers clenched in his right hand as he attempted to remove the glass embedded into his flesh. His shirt was a crumpled and bloody mess on the floor, and his pants were rolled up to expose his knees. It was a tedious process, with his shaking hand that kept missing the shards and poking into the cuts instead, and the fact he was having trouble seeing the shards in the first place.

 

The cuts themselves weren't nearly as gruesome as Harry had originally thought they would be. When Vernon had stabbed him, it had felt like the glass had been shoved so deep it could've been touching his organs.

 

In retrospect, this seemed a bit dramatic, but in Harry's defense, he'd never been stabbed before.

 

There were a few minor gashes spanning the middle part of his stomach and one thick laceration just above his belly button. It was deep enough that it needed stitches, and it was still bleeding sluggishly despite the blood that had clotted around the edges. 

 

Unfortunately for Harry, the Dursleys would probably rather die than take him to the hospital to receive medical attention. He could always try to do the stitches himself, but he had no idea how to, and even if he did, there was nothing in the house he could use to stitch himself up with. The closest thing he had was mint-flavored dental floss, and somehow Harry didn't think that was going to work.

 

Another issue was the glass still in the wounds. He was struggling to get all of it out, and Harry wasn't sure if he would be able to tell when it was completely gone. It had also been coated in wine when it had pierced his skin, and if nothing else that was a perfect breeding ground for infection. 

 

He was no doctor or medi-witch, but he at the very least he knew that it wouldn't be the best idea to allow the glass to remain. Which was why he was sitting in the bathroom at nearly eleven o'clock, trying to patch himself up properly instead of just wrapping gauze around it and calling it a night.

 

Uttering a cry of victory, Harry finally snagged the shard he had been trying to get for what must have been the past ten minutes. He dropped it into the trash can next to him. 

 

_ Only about a million to go _ , he thought, and immediately his mood dropped. 

 

He had already fished out as much glass as he could from his knees. They looked rough, covered in tiny, superficial cuts and purpling bruises. The bruises were from when he had fallen to the floor, and they ached even while he was sitting, but it hurt the most when he walked or otherwise moved his legs. The skin on his knees would stretch and shrink to accommodate the movement. Every time he took a step the cuts would smart and send a flash of pain all throughout his body. It stopped the air dead in his chest, and he kept having to remind himself to breathe.

 

It was inevitable that Harry would be limping around for the first couple weeks of school. He couldn't, as ironic as it was, magically heal himself overnight. Hopefully, however, if he nursed himself well enough, he could recover before anyone noticed. It would also be a good idea to wear his longest school robes for a little while, just to be safe.

 

Harry winced as the tweezers missed his target once again and pinched the soft, pink skin of his wound. Frustrated by his unsteady hand, he switched the tweezers to his left hand and on the first try managed to snag a piece of glass.

 

_ Strange _ , Harry thought.  _ I seem to be doing better with my other hand _ .

 

Sweat started to drip down his face, so he relaxed momentarily from his bowed position to push his glasses back up his slick nose and then refocused on his task. Involuntarily, his thoughts began drifting to what had happened earlier.

 

Vernon didn't want him to go to Hogwarts, but Harry was determined to go whether his uncle liked it or not. He wouldn't be able to survive another day in this house, much less another year. 

 

Dumbledore had cut off all communication with him at the beginning of the summer, which left Harry irrationally concerned that his headmaster had suddenly forgotten about him and was planning on leaving him at the Dursleys to die. He wasn't sure that  _ anyone _ would come for him should he not show up at Kings Cross Station tomorrow morning, so he was intent on getting there himself, somehow.

 

Except he had no money, he was injured, and every last bit of wizarding-related paraphernalia he owned was in the cupboard underneath the stairs, locked up tight. Including his wand.

 

So his situation was looking a little bleak, all things considered, especially since he couldn't even walk properly, much less perform a masterfully artistic escape routine.

 

However, Harry had been lucky enough to have been left out of his room for the night, and that had never happened before. The Dursleys had gone to bed hours ago and had left him to do his tasks in peace. It was a lapse in security quite unusual for them, considering they were so terrified of all things concerning magic.

 

Harry attributed it to the fact that he had probably looked pathetic enough to make them believe he wouldn't be much of a threat (not that he really had been for most of the summer). It was a fluke, but it was one that Harry would be taking full advantage of.

 

Picking the last of the glass that he could see from his stomach, he stood up. A pained whimper unintentionally escaped from his mouth. After washing them off, he set the tweezers back into the medicine cabinet and grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and what looked like antibiotic ointment. His back was sore from being hunched over for so long and his eyes were fighting to stay open, so rather than reading the directions Harry flipped the lid off the hydrogen peroxide and poured it into every inch of open wound that he could see.

 

As soon as it touched his skin it started bubbling, and after a couple of seconds, it started burning. The only thing that Harry could think was  _ Bad idea, bad idea, this is why I’m not allowed to make important decisions _ . His curled his hands over the lip of the bathtub so tightly that he was sure he could feel it cracking. His bottom lip was clenched between his teeth as he tried to stop himself from shouting in pain. 

 

Eventually, the burning sensation subsided enough for Harry to relax, so he took a deep breath in and reached for the ointment. He screwed the top off the container and coated his fingers in the clear balm.  _ Surely this can’t hurt as bad as that just did, _ and without another thought, he smeared it liberally over the same places he had just poured the peroxide. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as painful and really only hurt when his fingers grazed the sensitive parts of his cuts. 

 

When he was done with that, he carefully placed a large bandaid on each knee and then wrapped a long roll gauze over his middle. He secured it with what may have been either medical tape or just plain duct tape, cleaned the bathroom up as best as he could, and turned the light off with an audible click.

 

Harry shut the door behind him as quietly. He was exhausted, but if he was going to escape for Hogwarts he’d have to find a way  _ tonight _ , and that meant he’d need his things.

 

He hobbled down the stairs, wincing every time he accidentally stepped on a creaky board. His breathing was labored. Every sound he made seemed to echo in the silence of the house. 

 

On the second to last step, Harry tripped and just barely caught himself on the railing. He felt like an elephant that only had three legs with how clumsily he was moving. Steadying himself, he took the final step off the stairwell and moved towards where he thought Vernon kept the keys to the cupboard, at the very top of the bookshelf.

 

Harry assumed that Vernon put it there because it was well out of Harry’s reach, which was frankly quite insulting. He was short, yes, but as shameful as it might be, he could just as easily use a chair to get to them. 

 

That thought stopped him dead in his tracks because there was no way he would be able to climb up on to a chair in the state he was in. Harry had barely made it down the stairs.

 

“I don't have time for this,” he whispered to himself and turned around back in the direction of the cupboard. He’d just have to try and break in with magic.

 

_ I’ve seen Hermione do wandless magic before. It can't be that hard, can it? _

 

Harry stood in front of the door and stared determinedly at the mass of padlocks covering it.  _ Alohomora _ , he thought.

 

Nothing happened.

 

_ Alohomora _ , he thought a little more aggressively.

 

Still, the locks remained latched.

 

_ Maybe I need to say it out loud? _

 

“Alohomora!” he whispered.

 

The door didn’t move an inch. 

 

He glared at the cupboard in growing frustration and grabbed hold of one of the locks, wrenching it from the door. There was no give.

 

“Oh- for the love of-  _ OPEN _ !” And with a resounding crack, the door popped out its frame and the full weight of it settled into his arms.

 

Harry caught it and then let it drop as easily as he could onto the floor. He ran a shaking hand over his face.  _ Oh my god, I should’ve just gotten the fucking chair. There’s no way they didn’t hear that, _ he thought despairingly.

 

He listened carefully for the sound of movement that he knew would be coming from upstairs at any moment now. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to move, he was so terrified. 

 

He stood there, waiting, for what felt like hours, yet no footsteps ever came. Harry didn’t even hear the creak of the bed, signaling that his aunt or uncle had shifted.

 

Impossibly, it really seemed as if no one had heard the explosion. Relief flooded Harry’s body, but so did a crashing wave of fatigue. He fell against the wall of the cupboard, scrabbling against the paneling to try and keep himself standing. His eyes were rolling into the back of his head against his consent, and in a final burst of energy, he managed to propel himself into the cupboard and onto the tiny cot that still remained within. It wasn’t nearly as tight of a fit as it should’ve been.

 

_ It looks like I won’t be making it to Hogwarts this year _ , was Harry’s last thought before the blackness of unconsciousness consumed him.

 


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello boys, I have an update. No reason for the long wait other than hella writer's block. Anyway, please enjoy! I tried to make this one a little funnier to ease up on the angst.

The next morning found Harry sprawled across the cot, his eyes fluttering as he struggled to make his way into consciousness. His right arm was creased and sore from where he had accidentally lain on it, and he could feel a line of drool that had dried on his chin.

 

Disgustedly, he also noticed that there was a damp spot underneath him, on the sheets, undoubtedly as a result of his drooling.

 

Avoiding the patch of spit, Harry gently sat up and raised his glasses onto his forehead to rub at his eyes. Crust had settled along his eyelashes and stuck them together, which made it difficult for him to blink. 

 

After a couple of seconds, he settled his glasses back onto his nose. His stomach muscles were straining a little from how he was sitting, so Harry planted his hands on the bed and tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but a wave of pain shot down his spine and immediately forced him to stop moving. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he almost keeled over into the floor. He could feel bile rising up his throat and burn at the back of his mouth. He struggled to swallow it back down.

 

If he thought that he was sore yesterday, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. His impromptu nap was plenty enough time for the ache in his muscles to really settle in. It was nothing like the pleasant ache that he got after a rough Quidditch match or practice; it was a pain that seemed to seep deep into his bones and make him so stiff that he could barely move.

 

Fighting against his screaming muscles begging him not to move, Harry slowly stretched his arms out in front of him. It was a stretch he did often, chiefly to alleviate the stiffness of his muscles and stimulate blood flow. It burned at first, but the pain eventually gave way to the latent pleasure of stretching after sleep or exercise. He exhaled gently and looked down briefly to check on his stomach. The wound didn’t look life-threatening, but he knew that he would have to change the bandages soon. 

 

Blood had permeated the surface of the cotton gauze and stained it in messy patches. Looking further down, Harry saw that it had managed to stain the sheets too. 

 

Embarrassingly enough, he also noticed that he had forgotten to replace his shirt after tending to his wounds last night. It left his upper-half completely exposed to the open air, and Harry knew his body wasn't a very pretty sight. 

 

He traced a finger over the sensitive line of skin just above his bandages. He was unnaturally pale, with ugly tan lines on his arms and neck from where he played Quidditch and worked outside during the summer. Occasionally, there was a faint shimmer of a scar, of which he had his fair share. The delicate bones of his ribcage not covered in bandages were visible through his skin. A cold draft drifted into the small cupboard and Harry watched detachedly as goosebumps rose on his naked chest. In this moment, observing himself as he was, Harry almost felt like he wasn’t in his own body. Like he was perhaps an outside entity, watching his own actions through something else's eyes. Another cold draft brought him away from his deep thoughts.

 

Harry had never really been particularly modest (not that you really could be, after you’d shared a dorm room with five other boys for the past couple years) but for some reason the thought of someone finding him exposed like this caused a flush to spread high on his cheeks. He needed to go upstairs and get another shirt.

 

And, as Harry looked at the cupboard door that still lay unhinged and splintered on the floor, he would have to do something about that as well.

 

He muffled a jaw-cracking yawn into his hand and took another cursory glance around the cupboard. Nothing seemed to be immediately amiss, and all of his stuff was exactly where he had thought it would be.

 

_ My escape last night didn't exactly go as planned _ , Harry thought wryly. He had missed his only chance of leaving undetected last night, which meant he would have to try again that morning. With so little time until daylight, he would have to plan quickly.

 

There was a small possibility that he could pull a stunt like that one incident from his second year. 

 

_ Better not _ , Harry decided almost immediately. He recalled how he had almost gotten expelled and how high Snape’s blood pressure had risen, but to be fair, Snape had a tendency to lose his mind over nearly anything. He also didn’t think it was very likely for him to find another flying car.

 

Three crisp knocks suddenly sounded from the front door, pulling Harry away from his thoughts. 

 

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. It was so early in the morning that there was barely a tendril of light peeking through curtains, and if Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia weren't up yet, then that meant the time was well before six-thirty. Who could possibly be awake, knocking at the Dursleys' door (of all people), at such an ungodly hour?

 

A shred of hope began to worm its way into his heart. Maybe someone really had come to get him.

 

Whoever it was, they were clearly impatient. Half a minute hadn’t even passed before another three knocks reverberated through the house.

 

Upstairs, he could hear the Dursleys shift. 

 

Harry braced his body on the bed and pushed upwards with as much strength as he could spare. He managed to propel himself into a standing position, but he pushed a little too hard. He barely caught himself on the door frame, nearly sprawling onto the floor in a heaped mess. He steadied his shaking legs and stepped out from underneath the cupboard underneath the stairs.

 

Harry reached down and curled his fingers around the cupboard door. It wasn’t heavy, but it was large and awkward for him to lift. He positioned it approximately where it had been before he had accidentally ripped it from its hinges.

 

It was a little too far to the left, so he nudged it into place as close as he could.  _ Good enough _ , he decided.  _ Or as good as it’s going to get. _

 

Another round of knocks beat on the front door. Whoever was here clearly had no intentions of leaving until they got whatever it is they wanted.

 

Vernon began audibly grumbling upstairs about ‘those thrice-damned salespeople,’ indicating that he was both obviously awake and beginning his morning  _ delightfully.  _ Petunia, too, seemed to have awoken, with her nasally voice becoming increasingly inaudible under the rising ire of Uncle Vernon’s bellow.

 

More knocks upon the door, and Vernon slammed his feet upon the ground in response, nearly shaking the whole house. Harry easily tracked the direction of Vernon’s angry footsteps as he could practically see the plaster falling from the ceiling in response to the stomping. He pitied the fool who had, in the words of a wise idiom, awoken a sleeping giant. Or, more accurately, a sleeping fat man. Petunia's lighter, but no more graceful footsteps followed her husbands. They were making their way down the stairs to answer the door.

 

Harry hobbled into the kitchen and peered around the corner to eavesdrop, his line of vision reduced to the sight of Vernon’s balding head and the large curlers in his aunt’s hair.

 

He could hear rather than see his uncle grab hold of the door and wrench it open with an unnecessary amount of force. The back of his neck was red with anger, and Harry could almost feel the spittle on his face when Vernon hissed through his teeth. “ _ What!?” _

 

Harry strained his neck to try and catch sight of who was on the other side of the door, but his uncle’s large figure was too obstructive. He couldn’t see a thing, not even the top of their head.

 

There was a long pause. Harry imagined the person was wiping the spit off their face.

 

“How… abhorrent. I knew you muggles were filthy animals but I didn’t really think it was to this extent.” 

 

Harry’s stomach simultaneously dropped and filled with butterflies. The patronizing drawl of Severus Snape was terrifyingly recognizable. He never thought he would feel a single ounce of pleasure from hearing it again, but he was almost willing to leave with even the Dark Lord if it meant never seeing the Dursleys again.

 

Vernon sputtered in outrage, but Snape wasted no time in attempting to appease his rage. “Where is the boy?”

 

That seemed to make Vernon even angrier. He shook a heavy fist in Snape’s face. “He’ll not be returning to that school, not while I have any say in it. Too many  _ freaks,  _ such as yourself. Encouraging unnatural behavior.”

 

Snape seemed to understand this statement in entirely the wrong way. He scoffed mockingly. “Worried about Potter’s safety? As much as I loathe to comfort you, Hogwarts is the safest place he can be, second only to here.”

 

Vernon scoffed right back at Snape, but it was Petunia who answered this time. “Worry about the boy? Have you lost your mind? We’re worried about  _ our  _ safety, our son’s safety. That boy is a menace and a constant danger.”

 

Confusion had permeated Snape’s voice but it still held his trademark condescension. “Well then,  _ Tuney, _ ” Harry balked at the nickname Snape had just used for his aunt. Did they know each other? “Surely you have no qualms then, with me taking him?” 

 

Silence met his question, and unhindered, Snape carried on. “If somehow your tiny brains manage to come up with a single  _ valid _ reason as to why Potter shouldn’t return to Hogwarts, please feel free to contact Headmaster Dumbledore at any time. I’m sure he would be  _ delighted _ to discuss this matter further with you. Now move aside.”

 

Harry scrambled back around the corner and felt panic creeping around the edges of his mind. Snape was inside his house and was about to see him, injured and all. No matter how much they despised each other, there was no way Snape wouldn’t ask about the bandages around his stomach, and he could no longer go upstairs and get a shirt to cover himself as he had originally planned.

 

Distantly he could hear Vernon fussing and trying to stop Snape in his tracks. “Now you listen here-”

 

“ _ Stupefy, _ ” Snape interrupted, clearly growing tired of his uncle’s antics. His body made a loud thump as it hit the floor, unconscious. Petunia screeched, but Harry didn’t hear her make a move to go help her husband.

 

His eyes searched frantically around the kitchen for a solution as Snape’s footsteps slowly became louder, before they suddenly caught on Aunt Petunia’s apron.

 

It was lacy, and pink, and perhaps the ugliest thing Harry had ever laid his eyes upon. She wore it religiously, and any time she cooked she stood as far away as she could from whatever she was making just to keep it clean. This, of course, defeated the whole purpose of an apron, but the Dursleys had never been well known for their critical thinking. It had its own hook on the kitchen wall, directly next to where she hung all the cast-iron pots and pans. No-one was allowed to touch it but her. She lovingly hand washed it every Sunday, and Harry had even caught her whispering to it one time. Petunia’s name was even embroidered in loopy white letters across the bottom.

 

The only time Harry had ever heard his Aunt raise her voice at Dudley was when he had accidentally spilled grape juice on it.

 

Harry wondered sometimes, after that incident, if she really did have some magic in her after all, because she had somehow found a way to get that stain out of it.

 

Wasting no time, Harry threw himself towards the apron and looped it over his head. The strings on the sides were long enough that he was able to wrap them around his body a full time before tying a quaint little bow right in the front. The lace itched his sensitive skin, but his bandages were fully covered.

 

He finished adjusting it just as Snape rounded the corner, his robes billowing dramatically behind him as always. He stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he saw Harry.

 

His eyebrows raised questionably. “Potter,” he greeted, his voice stiff and awkward.

 

Harry, ever the actor, leaned casually against the nearest countertop and responded as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Professor,” he said, his voice cracking near the end of the word.

 

Snape’s eyebrows rose even higher, if that was even possible. Petunia chose precisely that moment to appear behind Snape in the doorway. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight before her. “My apron!” she wailed, her hands coming to cover her eyes in despair. Neither Harry nor Snape paid her any mind.

 

“I’ll just-” Harry gestured wildly, trying to move as smoothly as possible so as to not reveal his injury. “Go upstairs, and uh, you know. Um, change.”

 

Snape nodded slowly, moving to allow Harry to pass. “Yes, Potter. I think that’d be best.”

 


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, I've updated. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, kudos'ed or bookmarked so far, it means a lot!!!! I wrote this and am currently posting from my phone, so please excuse any glaring mistakes!!

Harry nimbly stepped over the body of Vernon Dursley, which was conveniently laying directly at the bottom of the stairs. His arms and legs were strewn about in a disarray, as if he was trying to take up as much space as possible. It was of course in Vernon’s very nature to be as much of a hindrance as possible, even when knocked unconscious.

 

The staircase was uncharacteristically silent as he climbed it, making no noise even with his painfully clumsy steps. This was a stark contrast to how it had been the night before (when he had tried to escape), creaking in protest every time he so much as breathed. This served to further his theory that perhaps the whole world really was out to get him.

 

He reached the top of the stairs and barely stifled a round of hysterical laughter threatening to escape his mouth. Harry could not believe that had just happened. He was stuck between feeling embarrassed that he had been caught in Aunt Petunia's pink apron, of all things, and feeling endlessly amused that Snape was subjected to seeing him like that.

 

In all his years of being taught by the restrained and unreasonably-hard-to-faze Professor, Harry had only seen him rendered speechless a handful of times. The fact that Harry had managed to not only bear witness to it but also be the cause of his Professor's bewilderment was a marvel.  

 

Snape will have gathered his wits about him by the time Harry made it back downstairs, but that wouldn't stop him from stowing away and savoring that moment for as long as he could.

 

Most importantly, Harry couldn’t wait to tell Ron and Hermione about it-

 

_ Er _ , Harry backtracked,  _ perhaps I should leave them be for a while _ .

 

He had no idea of knowing if they held any bitter feelings towards him from what had happened over the summer, due to their lack of correspondence. He was admittedly terrified of finding out. It felt like he was taking the coward’s way out (which happened to be terribly uncharacteristic of him) but he was sorely tempted to avoid them at all costs.

 

Harry wasn't sure he could handle their rejection, if they decided they were tired of him and the tragedy he brought with him.

 

It didn't stop him from wistfully thinking that Ron would undoubtedly find pleasure in the ridicule of his most-hated Professor, and Harry knew if he told the story well enough he could even produce a laugh out of Hermione.

 

He then thought about the looks of distaste he might see on their faces once they saw each other again. Suddenly, he didn't feel like telling them anymore.

 

_ Yeah _ , he decided.  _ I’ll leave them be _ .

 

Reaching his bedroom felt like it took around a million years. The walk up the stairs had been strenuous at best, with how carefully he had tried to avoid jostling anything too seriously. The effort alone caused a cold sweat to pool around his temples.

 

Harry felt filthy. He had done nothing but bleed, sweat and excrete other bodily fluids over the past couple of days and he knew he needed a bath, badly.

 

That would have to wait, however, until he figured out what Snape's plans were for him.

 

He stepped into his room and headed towards his dresser, intending on finding something at least half-decent to wear. The first drawer yielded nothing but thin pairs of socks and underwear, of which he selected the best of each. 

 

The next drawer held all of his shirts, and after carefully digging all the way to the bottom, he found an old long sleeve t-shirt that had hardly been touched by Dudley. It was a deep plum color, and Dudley firmly believed that purple was only a color that girls could wear, so he had only worn it himself once or twice. Harry had no such qualms, but it was a dark and heavy shirt that was not meant for wear in the hot summer sun, so he usually avoided wearing it while working. It had remained unworn for so long that it retained the wooden scent of the dresser when he held it up to his nose to sniff. 

 

He set it aside and moved to the next and final drawer, from which he collected a thick pair of blue jeans that were almost in perfect condition, other than the holes that adorned both knees and the frayed material around the belt loops.

 

He put on everything he had set aside, rolling the sleeves of his t-shirt up and cinching a worn black leather belt around his oversized pants to keep them up.

 

He laced his pair of trainers up last, grateful that he at least owned one article of clothing that fit. The Dursleys had originally ordered them from a magazine catalog for Dudley, but they had been shipped in the wrong size so Harry had been 'generously' allowed to keep them.

 

Harry felt ridiculous in his cousin’s large clothes, like he was a child playing dress-up. He was almost more embarrassed about his current get-up than he had been wearing Petunia's apron. Nevertheless, he knew he would eventually have to make his way downstairs. He sighed and glanced longingly at Hedwig’s empty cage. He had sent her to go stay at the Burrow at the beginning of the summer, for her protection more than anything else. The Dursleys had shown time and time again that they had no reservations about hurting Harry or anything he loved, so he was reasonably afraid they might kill her.

 

The sounds of shouting started up again from downstairs. Harry supposed Petunia had finally gotten over her initial fear of Snape and had decided she too, wanted to become a victim of his  _ Stupefy. _

 

Harry crept as carefully down the stairs as he had gone up them, and followed the sound of the commotion back into the kitchen.

 

Petunia had her bony fingers shoved into his Professor's face, reminiscent of how Vernon had, only a few minutes earlier, been shaking his own meaty fist into the same face. That had ended as well as could have been expected, but Petunia seemed to neither remember nor care.

 

Snape, however, didn’t seem to have any interest in handling the situation in front of him. In fact, his eyes were almost glazed over as if he were pondering something in a land far away from where they currently were.

 

“Professor?” Harry tentatively tried, and immediately Snape snapped into attention.

 

His lips curled into a scowl at the sight of Harry, apparently no longer fazed about what he had caught Harry wearing. The reaction was so immediate Harry believed it stemmed from an instinct to hate everything that lived and breathed.

 

“Potter,” He greeted again. “Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence. I was almost afraid you were going to need me to come up there and help you change.”

 

Harry felt his face morph into a scowl to match his Professors. The initial thankfulness he had felt for his so-called ‘rescuer’ was rapidly draining by the second.

 

“You wouldn’t know much about changing, though, would you Professor? Considering you wear the same thing every day. Do you ever take your cloak off, or do you take a bath with it on too?” Harry bit back.

 

His fists were clenched at his side, and he could feel his fingernails cutting crescents into his skin. Snape’s hackles rose even further in response. 

 

Harry knew his Professor was purposefully baiting him, but it did nothing to stop the rage from washing over him in waves. He wished his wand wasn’t still in the cupboard so he could use it to curse Snape into oblivion.

 

Snape opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver another barbed insult, but Petunia interrupted whatever it was he was going to say.

 

“Boy!” she snapped, and immediately Harry’s shoulders drooped. His eyes dropped to the floor, and all the anger that had been rushing through his veins was sucked out, just by a single word.

 

“Sorry, Aunt Petunia.” Harry apologized, meekly.

 

Snape’s jaw dropped open in shock. Harry found that the look was very unbecoming of him. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that to happen. Harry spared a brief thought to delight in the fact that Snape had been rendered speechless twice in the same day. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. Not that he cared enough to enquire about his health.

 

Petunia glanced conspiratorially at Snape, as if they were sharing a particularly interesting secret. She gestured at Harry.

 

“He needs a firm hand, is all. I’ve trained him well.”

 

That word again.  _ Training.  _ He wasn’t a fucking dog. Harry felt indignation building up in his chest once more, ready to start a fight, but he was quickly mollified by a sharp look from Petunia.

 

“Hm,” Snape said, thoughtfully. “A firm hand, you say?”

 

Despairingly, Harry realized Petunia had just provided Snape with all the tools necessary to make his life even more of a living hell.

 

The situation was quickly spiraling out of his control, and he needed to gain some sort of footing again, before things began to really get out of hand. 

 

Petunia clearly felt some level of comfort around Snape, due in part to their mutual hatred of Harry, nevermind mind that her husband was still unconscious by the stairs. Who knew what else she would deem appropriate to share.

 

"Professor," he started, his voice much more subdued now, "when will we be leaving?"

 

Snape pursed his lips. "Hmm. Soon. Gather your things, and quickly."

 

Harry nodded in understanding and headed to the cupboard. Snape and Petunia followed at a sedated pace behind him, and feeling a little vindictive from earlier, he made direct eye contact with Petunia as he pushed the cupboard door from it's precarious position. He made no move to catch it as it fell to the floor, barely even flinching as it cracked against the floor.

 

He shrugged his shoulders apologetically, maintaining eye contact. "Oops."

 

Petunia made a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

 

Satisfied by her response, Harry crawled into the cupboard, spluttering as his face got caught in a cobweb.

 

Maneuvering his trunk around the cot was tricky but not impossible, but it was hindered by the twin pair of beady eyes staring lasers into his back. It made his grip fumble and he could feel a slight tremble work it's way into his hands.

 

Harry opened the trunk as soon as it was out of the cupboard and dug around for his wand. He shoved it into his waistband, and the familiar weight of the holly made his tense muscles relax minutely. He closed the trunk softly, and taking a deep breath, he turned around to face Snape again. 

 

"I need Hedwig's cage. And then I'm ready."

 

Snape nodded his assent, and a few minutes later he had everything gathered. Just in time, too, as Vernon was beginning to blubber and show signs of waking up.

 

Harry made no move to say goodbye to Petunia or Vernon, and instead followed Snape directly outside. He didn't even look back when Petunia slammed the door behind them.

 

Snape looked around to ensure no muggles were lurking about, before discreetly shrinking Harry's trunk and placing a feather-light charm on it. Harry slipped it into his pocket and Snape moved to do the same thing to the owl cage once he noticed it was empty.

 

"Where's your owl?" 

 

Snape's voice was carefully neutral, showing no real indication of interest, but Harry knew he wouldn't have asked if he wasn't curious. The professor wasn't one for smalltalk.

 

For this reason alone, he kept his answer short. "I sent her to stay with the Weasley's."

 

Snape hummed in understanding and left the topic alone, but Harry could still feel the suspicious look he threw him burn into the side of his face. 

 

Snape held his left arm out, and indicated for Harry to grab it.

 

"You will hold onto my arm. We will apparate to Hogsmeade and then make our way to Hogwarts. All your school things have been bought, and if there is anything else you require, you may ask Headmaster Dumbledore about it once you speak with him."

 

"We're apparating, right here? What if someone sees us?" Harry asked.

 

"Yes, that's what I said. And no-one is paying attention to us, so try not to overwhelm your delicate brain."

 

Harry ignored the obvious jab in favor of another question. "And I have to speak with Dumbledore?" He hated how small his voice sounded.

 

Snape looked at him in disbelief. "Are you deaf as well as dumb?" He shook his arm in impatience. "Come. We have places to be, and not everyone has the time to wait on the  _ golden-boy. _ "

 

Harry mustered up enough energy to sneer back. He grasped the outstretched arm, none-too gently.

 

Snape turned his head away, his curtain of black hair moving to cover his face and preventing Harry from seeing any further expressions.

 

Snape flourished his wand and they apparated away from the lawn of Number Four, Privet Drive with an audible  _ crack. _

 


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! Sorry for the wait! Please excuse any mistakes with this chapter because honestly? I plugged it into Grammarly didn't even read it over because to put it simply, this chapter was a bitch. It's also the longest one I've written so far.
> 
> Also, WARNING: This chapter contains some pretty heavy (what I would like to believe is well written) manipulation, so if that isn't your thing I would recommend only reading like, the first 500 words. 
> 
> Thank you again, everyone, for your support. Without further ado, I present chapter six!

The sight of Hogsmeade greeted Harry warmly seconds before he collapsed to the ground and almost upended the meager contents of his stomach.

 

He coughed painfully as the acidic bile burned it's way back down his throat. Apparition, as usual, was perhaps the worst possible way to travel. Harry would have preferred to have taken his chances with muggle transportation, thanks. He curled his fingers deeply into the ground beneath him, anchoring himself. Dirt worked its way underneath his fingernails, and the grass tickling his hands was wet and soft with morning dew.

 

A sharp intake of breath soothed Harry’s nerves almost instantly. The sweet smell of butterbeer, chocolate, and wood-smoke met his nose, and he could distantly hear the gentle noises that signaled the small town was preparing to awaken and begin its regular busy day.

 

The familiar pull of strong and ancient magic engulfed him next, washing over him and comforting him like an old friend. A feeling grew deep in his bones, a deep sense of ease. He was almost _home,_ so close he could almost taste it, and suddenly the desire to see Hogwarts in all of its wonderful glory built so rapidly that he could feel potent longing sting in his chest like a bitter ache.

 

His bout of nausea subsided quickly enough, and beside him Snape remained as neutral and unaffected as always, hardly sparing Harry a glance. Not a single hair was out of place, showing no signs of the great distance they had just traveled within the blink of an eye.

 

Snape made no move to help as Harry struggled to his feet, not that Harry had expected him to. It was unlikely that he would have accepted his help anyway, purely out of principal.

 

Snape did, however, retain enough tact to at least refrain from making any spiteful comments while Harry finished gathering his bearings. 

 

It was a small gesture but one that Harry appreciated nonetheless. It was obviously intentional, and against his better judgment, he allowed a small measure of gratitude to grow towards his Professor.

 

It seemed he was capable of acting like a real human being, after all.

 

“If you’ll follow me, Potter. Try not to get lost.” Snape said crisply, before turning on his heel and with his abnormally long strides, quite literally left Harry in the dust.

 

_Or perhaps not,_ Harry thought bitterly.

 

He jogged to keep up, ignoring the slight twinge of protest from his stomach in favor of moving as quickly as possible towards Hogwarts. He was excited to step foot inside the castle once again, and not even the thought of having to face Dumbledore deterred him. He was home, damn it, and he refused to let anything keep him from reveling it.

 

In no time at all they stood in front of the Headmaster’s office, the large statue towering over the both of them. Snape called one of the school elves to retrieve Harry’s things and bring them to his dorm, and after telling him the password, he left with a final dramatic sweep of his robes, turning the corner and leaving Harry all alone to face his fate.

 

The password, predictably, was a muggle sweet, but not one Harry had ever had the pleasure of tasting himself. Dudley, however, had indulged in it often, which was the only reason why Harry didn’t balk at the name.

 

“Jawbreaker,” he repeated the password dully, in the same bored tone Snape had used when conveying it to him. The grind of stone against stone grated harshly against his ears. Hesitating for only a moment, Harry began the tedious climb up the stairs tot he Headmaster’s office. He dragged his hand across the cool rock of the staircase, partially for balance but mainly to focus his mind on something other than the upcoming anxiety.

 

With each step his feet seemed to grow heavier and heavier, his shoulders drooping lower and lower until at the top of the steps he felt as if he could go no further, a great weight coming to rest upon his entire body. 

 

He continued walking anyway until he came to a stop in front of Headmaster Dumbledore’s large wooden desk. His gaze remained firmly on his feet.

 

The first thing that Harry noticed was how cold the room was. All the windows were open wide, and although it was still summer and that Harry was wearing a thick sweater, the wind coming from the windows was surprisingly strong and bitingly cold, and despite himself, he felt goosebumps rise along his arms. 

 

The second thing he noticed was how quiet it was. The nearly endless portraits of previous Headmasters that covered almost every square inch of the office's walls were either empty, or the inhabitants were so deathly still that they could’ve been confused for muggle paintings. Even Fawkes remained unusually serene upon his perch beside the desk.

 

The final, and perhaps most unnerving thing that caught Harry’s attention, was the darkness. There was no fire lit in the fireplace, the braziers and torches surrounding the room were all stubbornly dim, not even the candles floating above their heads could boast a single flame. The gaping windows hardly allowed in any light at all, even though it was now mid-morning. Shadows ominously occupied every corner of the room.

 

Harry felt impossibly small. He knew, logically, that there was no reason he should feel anything but safe while at Hogwarts, but that did nothing to stop the thick tendrils of dread from worming their way into his heart.

 

The gentle clearing of a throat shocked Harry from his thoughts, and all at once he could feel his nerve endings alight. A wave of pure fear enveloped his body, and adrenaline began pumping through his veins for the second time that day.

 

There was no obvious threat, so why did Harry feel so afraid? Like he was delicate prey, slowly being circled by a deadly predator?

 

His head shot up quickly, and he could feel the bones of his neck cream embarrassingly loud from the movement. His eyes briefly met the Headmaster’s, and he knew that he would probably look like a wild, rabid animal if Dumbledore could properly see him through the haze of darkness.

 

Unaware, or perhaps politely ignorant of the blight his student was experiencing, Dumbledore smiled and greeted Harry magnanimously, as is there was nothing amiss.

 

“Harry, my boy! You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you!”

 

His hands, which were previously clasped upon the desk, untangled from each other and pushed the large bowl of muggle sweets in Harry’s direction.

 

“Lemon drop?” Dumbledore offered.

 

Harry shook his head jerkily. Every movement he made now felt awkward, his joints slowly growing stiff from the cold and fear. 

 

Dumbledore _hmmed_ offhandedly, and Harry had the sudden dropping feeling that he had failed some sort of test. The lemon drops were slid back into place without any protest, and Dumbledore gestured towards the seat directly in front of him.

 

“Sit, please. We have much to discuss.” His tone was kind but clearly brokered no arguments.

 

Harry loathed to move, but eventually, the desire to avoid disobeying the Headmaster won out against the paralyzing feeling of fear. Disturbingly, he felt like he was being examined closely from every angle with each step he took.

 

The chair, when he finally sat, was hard and unyielding and had no padding, very unlike the soft and cushioned chair the Headmaster resided in.

 

His hips and lower back began to ache in envy. All the while, the room only seemed to grow colder. Slight shivers began to rack Harry’s body, jostling his injuries uncomfortably.

 

Dumbledore still didn’t seem to take any notice. His eyes shone brightly in the darkness with their trademark sparkle. Distantly, Harry thought he looked distressingly close to a lurking monster, akin to the ones so often described in muggle fairy tales. Briefly, he contemplated that perhaps the Headmaster was the predator setting off every last one of Harry’s warning bells, but almost immediately dismissed the thought.

 

_Dumbledore would never hurt me._

 

“We have much to discuss, but first and foremost, I confess myself eager to deliver some good news for once! We have a new Potion’s master, one who has slightly lower standards than that of Professor Snape. I won’t tell you who it is yet, I don’t want to show _too_ much favoritism," At this, the twinkle in his eye only seemed to grow larger, "but just know you will get to continue with your potions education unlike previously believed.”

 

Harry privately didn’t think that that was much in the way of good news, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. There was a more pressing concern anyway.

 

“What about Snape? What will he do?” He barely managed to keep his voice steady.

 

“ _Professor_  Snape,” Dumbledore reminded him, not unkindly, “will take upon the daunting task of teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. I’m sure you will find him quite the capable teacher, as I know that is your favorite subject.” Dumbledore added a rather unsubtle wink at the end of his last statement.

 

“Oh,” Harry responded, eloquently. Defense Against the Dark Arts may have been his favorite subject now, but he was unsure of how long that would last under the callous tutelage of Snape. 

 

Dumbledore hummed in agreeance. "Quite. Now, onto other, more... delicate matters. I have something very important to discuss with you."

 

Dumbledore's tone shifted into something deeply serious, and if possible, the temperature of the room dropped even further. Harry's fingers grew numb, frozen and stuff around the edges of his chair. He could feel the wood scraping away underneath his fingernails.

 

Harry would have much rather been in the Gryffindor common room, lounging on a comfortable sofa in front of the blazing bright fireplace. He could almost envision the warmth enveloping, and his yearning only grew stronger.

 

"Voldemort," Dumbledore began gravely, "has created a series of items to tether him to the mortal world. Tether his soul, to be exact. These things are keeping him alive, and providing the source for his immortality. I have recently discovered one of what I believe to be many tethers. It's a family heirloom of his, more specifically, a ring. You will come with me to retrieve it."

 

Harry gulped audibly. "N-now?" His tongue was dry and sticky from sitting in silence for so long, and the words seemed to get caught in his mouth.

 

Dumbledore pinned him with an expectant gaze. "Not yet, but soon. Voldemort has likely prepared many traps to protect all of the pieces of his soul. It will not be easy to get. We will have to plan carefully."

 

He paused for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. Harry's jaw clenched in anticipation.

 

"Harry, I ask that you prepare yourself for this next part. I imagine it will change your perspective on many things."

 

The Headmaster waited until Harry nodded uneasily to continue.

 

"I've researched this subject extensively. These tethers, the ones that the Dark Lord has made, each contain a piece of his soul, as I've already explained. These tethers are officially known as Horcruxes. They're the darkest magic one could ever hope to perform. And you, Harry? Well. I hate to tell you this, my dear boy, but you are one of them."

 

The silence after his final statement was so deafening that Harry's ears began ringing. Or perhaps that was from the shock.

 

"What?" He asked, faintly.

 

"A Horcrux, Harry. You're one of Voldemorts Horcruxes."

 

One of his hands uncurled from its vice grip around the chair. 

 

"You're," he pointed at Dumbledore, "telling me," then back at himself, "that there is a piece of Voldemorts inside of me?" His voice trembled.

 

"Precisely!" Dumbledore suddenly beamed. "I'm glad you understand, not that I doubted you would, as intelligent as you are."

 

Harry felt like he was experiencing whiplash, with how quickly Dumbledore was changing personas. He could hardly keep up. His shaking hand fell pathetically back into his lap.

 

"And Harry," he continued delightedly, "do you know what we must do with all of these Horcruxes?"

 

Helpless, Harry slouched deeply into the chair. He had a dreadful feeling that he already knew the answer.

 

"What, sir?" he asked anyway.

 

At his question, Dumbledore's smile grew positively feral. He eyes shrunk until they became tiny, upside-down crescents, and his bared teeth glittered sinisterly.

 

"Why, we must destroy them of course!"

 

"Of course," Harry repeated hollowly.

 

"Don't worry, dear boy. Your sacrifice will not be in vain. Think of the lives you'll save! And besides, the time when you must... pass on, to put it gently, is in the distant future."

 

Somehow, this didn't make Harry feel any better. Sensing his student's hesitance, Dumbledore stood and leaned over the desk, resting his hand gently on Harry's shoulder. 

 

"Or," he began, his demeanor flipping once again, shown by the sudden tightness of his grip which forced Harry to look into his eyes, "would you rather be selfish, and watch as all your friends and family are decimated all because the _Boy-Who-Lived_ wouldn't **_die_**!?"

 

Harry reached up and weakly pawed at the hand bruising his shoulder. The room was suffocating now, in its coldness, and Harry's teeth began to chatter so hard that they felt as if they were being shattered. 

 

"No, Headmaster, please, no!" he gasped desperately.

 

As suddenly as it had all began, Dumbledore let go of his shoulder and leaned calmly back into his chair, as if nothing had ever happened. 

 

"Good, good. I'm glad that we could come to an understanding. And I think it'd be best if this stayed between the two of us, don't you agree?"

 

Terrified, Harry could only nod mindlessly. _Anything to get out of this room._

 

Seemingly pleased, Dumbledore relaxed completely and brought one of his hands to begin petting Fawkes, who had remained unaffected on his perch throughout the entire ordeal. The oppressiveness of the room was no longer choking him, but he still found it difficult to breathe. 

 

The room had even warmed up a bit too. His teeth were still chattering violently, however, loud enough for Dumbledore to finally notice. 

 

"My boy, are you cold? You should have said something sooner!"

 

And with a casual flick of his hand, the windows were slamming shut, and all of the braziers, torches, and candles roared to life. Harry flinched away from the sudden brightness and brought a hand up to shield his eyes. The familiar feeling of a warming charm rushed over him, but he felt no less cold.

 

"Thank you, Headmaster," he croaked, completely exhausted from the utter _nightmare_ that had just occurred.

 

"Of course, of course," he said dismissively. "You may go now."

 

Harry stood slowly on shaky and unfeeling legs, hoping that the tingling numbness would pass from his limbs sooner rather than later. 

 

He managed to stumble his way to the doorway before Dumbledore stopped him one last time. 

 

"And Harry?" He called. The boy in question stopped and turned slightly to show he was listening. "Remember. _Anything_ for the greater good."

 

 

 


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!!! Thank you for waiting!!! This is definitely a filler chapter, but amidst the stress of school starting, college applications, and scholarship applications, I'm afraid I haven't had time to do much else. The next chapter will be the Great Feast, and more interactions with Snape, Hermione and Ron. Please don't hesitate to request anything you'd like to see in chapters to come!!! Thank you again for reading my story, and I hope you enjoy.

Harry couldn’t stumble down the steps leading from the Headmaster’s office quickly enough. 

 

_ For the greater good,  _ Dumbledore had said. Harry felt a wave of bitter selfishness creep over him. What in Merlin’s beard was the greater good, anyway? And why was Harry always having to sacrifice things for it? First his parents, then his friends and family, and now himself?

 

_ Well,  _ Harry thought,  _ I know why I have to sacrifice myself. Voldemort has a piece of his soul inside of me. But surely… surely there’s another way. I don’t want to die. _

 

After the thought crossed his mind, it suddenly became all-consuming. The more Harry thought about it, the more he really didn’t want to have to sacrifice himself. 

 

_ I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die,  _ he repeated to himself, hysterically.

 

Harry wasn’t necessarily afraid to die. He had never been afraid to die, which should’ve been obvious by the many times he had fearlessly stared Death in the face and came back from it.

 

But he had always had a choice then, with the fate of his life: he had chosen to follow Quirell to retrieve the Philosopher’s stone, chosen to kill the Basilisk and save Ginny, chosen to save Buckbeak and Sirius, chosen to face Voldemort in a duel after he’d been resurrected, chosen to go to the Ministry and fight the Death Eaters.

 

Now? It felt like he had no say in the matter. Dumbledore had just told him he was going to have to die, to save everyone, and he could do nothing about it.

 

It wasn’t Harry playing with his own life anymore, it was Dumbledore, and that made it all the more serious.

 

Harry brought his hands up to claw at his constricting chest as if that would release the air trapped there. He couldn’t  _ breathe,  _ and he could only spare a small feeling of gratitude that Snape had left earlier and wasn’t waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. 

 

He could hear his wheezing breaths that struggled in vain to pass through his tightening airways. He must’ve looked pathetic. He certainly  _ felt  _ pathetic.

 

He could do nothing but allow his feet to lead him around the school, wandering up and down constantly shifting staircases, across walkways and past unconcerned paintings until he finally found an abandoned classroom.

 

The door to the classroom was small and crammed into a snug corner of the castle as if it had been placed there as an afterthought. It was positioned right next to a billowing tapestry depicting an ancient battle between muggles and wizards. The name of the battle was stitched into the bottom of the tapestry in what looked to be Latin, but Harry knew even if it was translated into English he wouldn’t be able to recognize it.

 

The door’s handle was heavy and made of wrought iron, shaped into an intricate entanglement of metal wires, all coming together to form an  _ O.  _ It was beautiful, but it looked garish resting upon the simple oak wood of the door.

 

Harry reached for the metal ring and grasped it gently in his hand, expecting it to be cold. Instead, it was unexpectedly hot and even seemed to grow warmer as his skin touched it. He wrenched the door open and stumbled into the room. Windows (closed this time, thankfully) lined the opposite wall, made of brightly colored glass that cast a rainbow of shadows all around the room. Four rows of desks were arranged haphazardly around the room, with one large desk that was clearly meant to be the Professor’s situated at the front.

 

Harry collapsed onto the nearest desk, disturbing the thick layers of dust and dirt that had probably accumulated there for years, causing it to explode in thick, billowing clouds around him. He disregarded the dust and instead kicked the door firmly shut, and then firmly placed his head between his knees and grasped his legs tightly.

 

_ Breathe, Harry, breathe,  _ he told himself. He took in one deep breath after another, and then abruptly sneezed. It was so powerful that it threw his head forward, forcing his glasses to slide down his nose. If he wasn’t so close to crying already, his eyes would have watered. 

 

It was also very unexpected, enough so that it shocked him right out of his panic attack. He could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up his throat instead, and he brought a hand up to cover his mouth to stifle it.

 

It was a futile attempt, however, and giggles managed to escape from in between his fingers until Harry finally gave up altogether and cackled until his stomach hurt from both exertion and his injury. He probably looked like a madman, sitting on the floor in an old room, laughing over nothing. It was cathartic, however, and soon enough, the hysterics tapered off and he wiped away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and delicately pushed his glasses back up his nose.

 

He took one more deep breath, careful not to inhale any more particles, and said a single word.

 

“ _ Fuck.” _

 

Harry felt it described his situation quite well.

  
  


After he felt like his legs could support his weight again, Harry stood back up and began really looking around the room. He dusted the grime off of his pants (which was going to be a bitch to properly clean, even with magic) and pulled his wand out to cast a simple  _ Lumos.  _ The room was already well lit, but the spell dispelled any remaining shadows.

 

It eased Harry’s nerves, to be able to see everything around him. Darkness reminded him a little too much of his cupboard when he was locked in and alone and not allowed to turn on the lightbulb. And now, Harry supposed, it would remind him of the incident in the Headmaster’s office.

 

_ Cheer up,  _ he thought to himself ironically.  _ Tragedy builds character. _

 

Harry rolled his eyes. He felt much better after his panic attack, a little more like himself. He was still on edge, but no longer in danger of losing it again. 

 

He took a step towards the desk at the front of the room. He felt like he had explored nearly every nook and cranny of Hogwarts with the aid of the Marauder’s Map, but he supposed that with as many rooms as the old castle had there surely had to be some he hadn’t discovered yet.

 

Still, it was strange that he’d never seen the one he was currently in. It seemed to be just a regular classroom, nothing special.

 

He ran his finger over the top of the large oak desk and watched curiously as filth gathered around his fingers. It made no sense as to why this room was so dirty- the house-elves regularly cleaned every room in the castle, even if they were unused.

 

Harry wiped his hands off on his robes and went around to the other side of the desk to see if it contained anything, but it was empty.

 

_ Curious. _

 

He vowed to remember this room for later exploration. Flourishing his wand once again, he cast  _ Tempus  _ and determined he had just enough time to make it to the dorms and rest for a little while before the feast.

 

Harry straightened his robes and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  
  


By the time Harry reached the dorms, his legs were nearly ready to collapse out from underneath him. He was more exhausted than he had originally thought, and climbing all those flights of stairs hadn’t helped any. 

 

The Gryffindor common room was unnaturally quiet, lacking the constant chatter and comfort it normally had. There was also no fire in the hearth.

 

It was irrational, and Harry knew it, but he could still feel a chill of fear run up his spine.

 

“Dobby?” he croaked. 

 

The house-elf appeared right in front of him, and the loud resounding crack that echoed around the room made him flinch. Large, teary doe-eyes stared up at him.

 

“Yes, Misters Harry Potter? How cans I be helping yous, sir?”

 

Harry felt a fond smile creeping at the edges of his mouth despite the terror threatening to overtake him.

 

“Could you, erm,” Harry coughed to clear his throat, “could you start a fire? Please?”

 

Dobby beamed, delighted by the prospect of helping him. “Of course, Misters Harry Potter. Please, sits down while I make yous a fire.”

 

Harry complied, easing himself gently onto the couch in front of the large hearth as a large roaring fire came to life. His stomach twinged in protest, and Harry tried to play the ensuing flinch off, but to no avail. Dobby, noticing it, came over and helped Harry adjust to a more comfortable position.

 

“Harry Potter, sir? What is beings wrong?”

 

Dobby’s hands were clasped gently in front of him, and his delicate eyes were filled with concern. Harry didn’t have the heart to lie to him, and so he leaned down as if to whisper something.

 

“Can you keep a secret for me?” Harry murmured in Dobby’s ear. Dobby nodded earnestly, his head shaking so aggressively he nearly knocked it against Harry’s own.

 

He gestured towards his stomach. “I injured myself, just before I came.”

 

Dobby’s shoulders scrunched up in tension, and his mouth dropped open in shock. “Injured?” he screeched. “Misters Harry Potter, you must be seeing Madame Pomfrey right now-”

 

The abrupt shouting grabbed the attention of the portraits around the room, and suddenly more than a dozen pairs of eyes were looking in on their conversation.

 

“Dobby! Dobby! Hush, Dobby!” Harry frantically gestured, trying to get the upset house-elf to calm down. He rested his hands on the tiny shoulders, which seemed to ease some of Dobby’s anxiety.

 

His ears drooped in unhappiness, and unshed tears began pooling at the corners of his eyes.

 

“But-”

 

“No buts, Dobby. You promised.” Harry said firmly, pointing at Dobby gently to emphasize his point.

 

If anything, the house-elf deflated even further and conceded hesitantly. “Yes sirs, I did…”

 

Harry released his grip and placed his hands on his lap. The portraits around the room were no longer listening, having lost interest once they discovered they wouldn’t be learning the subject of the conflict. He was glad they had decided to mind their own business; he had a sneaking suspicion that they were there for more than hanging on the wall and looking pretty. 

 

_ Er,  _ he rethought, after looking at a portrait that looked suspiciously like the female version of Snape,  _ perhaps not all of them are meant to look pretty. _

 

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry said earnestly. With a final, jerky nod, Dobby apparated away.

 

Not long after, Harry fell asleep on the plush couch, letting the flames of the fire dance him to sleep.


End file.
